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I was rocking
the coolest Joe Boxer heart boxer shorts over my tights.My red t-shirt had just enough feminine flair
without being overly girl. My hair was perfect, and my dear mother had even let
me wear just a little bit of make-up that morning.

It was going to be the
perfect day.

1st
period passed, and I laughed and joked with my friends and life was feeling as
grand as I could have hoped. I had received a few Valentine’s and given a few,
and I just knew that the best was yet to come.

2nd
period came, and it was my favorite class, Reading, with my favorite teacher
Mrs. White.We discussed and read aloud
some of the book we had been reading as a class, and then she left about 10
extra minutes at the end of class for us to just eat candy and giggle and
converse with each other on this special day.

The bell
rang, and I grabbed by bag to move along for a quick stop at my locker before
math class.Mrs. White ran out into the
hall after me and quickly pulled me into the teacher’s bathroom with her.

“Sara dear, I think you are having a
little accident honey.There was blood
all over your chair after you got up from class.”

Mortified I
ran straight to the mirror and sure enough my once cute boxer’s were totally
stained red.

“Is this your first time, sweetheart?
Did you not know?” she kindly asked.

“No, it happened about 3 weeks ago,
but I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be this long,” I responded, my eyes not
daring to look at her in the face.

“Let’s wait till the bell rings and
the kids go back into their classes, and I will take you down to the nurse.”

God bless
Mrs. White.What a dear she was to me.

She quickly
got me to the nurse’s room. The nurse asked me all of 3 questions before she
had my mom on the phone to come pick me up from school.

Once, of
course, my mom heard the whole story (as I had been leaving significant details
out of the situation for weeks in a feeble attempt to show my maturity), she
quickly whisked me straight to the doctor’s office.

What ensued
were lots of discussions between the doctor, the nurse, and my mom of blood
transfusions, anemia, hospital stays, medicine, and a whole bunch of really
uncomfortable questions for me.

It was a
whirlwind that left me almost bedridden at home for the next 2 weeks and the
knowledge that one of the worst days of my short 11 years of life was actually
that day that literally saved my life.

Both
literally and figuratively.

*****************************************************************

In my school
district, 6th grade meant the merging of 5 different elementary schools
into one big middle school.To say I was
petrified at the start of the school year would be an enormous
understatement.I had established a
great group of friends in elementary school, and I was just certain that it was
all going to be ruined come middle school.

And in many
ways it actually was, but not for the reasons I had foreseen.

By some
inexplicable measure, I quickly became one of the popular girls in school.I was hanging out with the “cool” girls in my
grade and also being noticed by some of the girls and boys from 7th
and 8th grade.I am sure
there was a reason for all of this, but 23 years later I couldn’t tell you what
it was.

But I was
living it up.

The problem
with this, though, was I was also becoming one of those mean girls.I had totally abandoned my old friends from
elementary school.I was more than
unbearable at home.And while I was
able to maintain good grades, I also started pushing the limits at school.I am ashamed to say that this included a note
to a boy I was trying to impress that included a reference to one of my
teachers as Mrs. Fatb****.This letter
was intercepted by another one of my teachers, and well you can imagine the
rest of that story.

It was not a
high point in my history to say the least, but I was so consumed with my
newfound “fame” that I didn’t realize the person I was becoming.

That all
changed that fateful Valentine’s Day.

Even as I lay
on the couch at home, the rumors of what had happened to me at school came
flooding to my house.Some were saying
I was pregnant.Some were saying I had
been pregnant before but lost the baby that day at school.

Now remember,
I was 11 years old! 11! I was still a baby who had yet to even have a real
first kiss.But the rumor mill spun at
rapid pace with all kinds of hurtful and painful stories about what had
happened to me.

Let’s just
say I went back to school with my head hanging and a whole new understanding of
how quickly one can rise and fall.

On top of all
of this, I was taking large quantities of medicine to try and sort things back
out inside of my body, and one of the unfortunate side-affects of all this
medicine was massive weight gain.

Throughout
the next 2 and half years, just exactly the duration of middle school, I went
from wearing a size 12 in girl’s clothing to a size 14 in women’s
clothing.I gained probably close to 40
or 50 lbs., although I was never brave enough to actually get on a scale and
see.This happened all while playing
year round sports and eating a fairly well balanced diet.

I remember
the shame I felt going into American Eagle with my grandma the week before
starting high school. She was going to buy me a new outfit for my first day of
school. The girl working there was a year older than me.She was petite, adorable, and one of the most
popular girls in school. She took my size 14 skirt and hung it in the dressing
room for me to try on.It was cute and
fit me well, so my grandma did buy it for me with a cute little top.

But I went
home and cried in the bathroom about the size in the back of the skirt, and in
anger, took scissors to almost every tag on the clothes hanging in my closet.

Even then, I felt that
the only thing relevant about me was the size of my pants.

Thankfully,
though, all hope wasn’t lost.I had
friends that stuck by me and supported me. They saw me for who I was and didn’t care so
much about the rumors or the shame.

And as I
already mentioned above, in a way those years, that dreaded day, all of the
rumors and teasing and shame, all of those things built in me character.I learned compassion and kindness.I fell in love with the theater and the voice
it gave me.I began to see people for
who they really were and not just judge them for what I saw on the
outside.I listened more.

And even more
important than all of those things, this painful season of life is what showed
me my need for Jesus Christ.I could
finally see my sin and need of a Savior.

I can say
without a hint of doubt or pause that I am who I am today and living the life I
am living today because of that awful and very painful experience.

*********************************************************************

So what’s the
point of all of this you might be wondering?Why am I sharing all of these intimate details on the World Wide Web?

Well, I am
sharing because I think it matters.

As I have
already written about on several occasions here on my blog, I still struggle
with feeling like the most relevant and important thing about me is the size of
my pants.I haven’t stopped being the
chubby girl since 1994, and even now at the age of 34, I still sometimes think
that you would like me better or my life would be easier if my pant size was
smaller.

Yep I still
sometimes think that.

I decide what
I am going to wear based on whether or not it makes me look too chubby.

Deep down I
want people to see me as a person that is kind and compassionate and generous
and just and passionate and courageous. Actually, I don’t want people to just see me
like that; I want to BE that kind of person.

And yet…

I like it
best when you tell me I am pretty or look skinny that day.

Why is
that?Why do we do this to
ourselves?Why do we care?

And I have
been asking myself these questions over and over again because it is happening
now with my daughter.

My beautiful,
smart, spunky, sassy, kind, independent, generous 7-year-old daughter is
hearing that she is chubby.She is being
told that her stomach is too large and her cheeks too round.

Now before my
parents completely freak out, I will add that this is somewhat normal here in
this cultural.Here you say exactly what
you think about a person no matter if it is “politically correct” or not.If you ask someone if they like your new
haircut, they will actually answer the truth…not just what they think you want
to hear. If you are fat, they tell you are fat. If you are bad a something,
they will tell you that you are bad.If
your eyes are slanted, they call you “chino” or “china.” If your skin is
darker, you are “negro” or “negra.” If you are light skinned, you are “canche.”
If you are curly headed, you are “colocho.” And if you are chubby, you are
“gordo” or “gorda.”

So this is
somewhat normal, and I don’t think in any way malign.But it is still painful for me.

For the first
4 years of my daughter’s life she was the smallest, little petite thing.She always wore 2 sizes smaller than the
other kids her age.And secretly I was
praising God that she wasn’t going to fight the weight thing like I have had to
fight it.

And then she
turned 5 and that started to change.She
wasn’t obese or even overweight but just filling out and rounding out.

But now I am
faced with having to decide if I am going to continue to allow myself to
believe that the most important thing about me is my pants size and in turn
send the message to my daughter that it also is the most important thing about
her, or I can decide to bury this thing once and for all.

Even though I
was young, I tasted the sweet wine of affection and praise and even to a
certain point, fame…fame on a small scale at least.I knew what it meant to be applauded and
cheered and liked for nothing more than the way I looked.

But in that
same year, I tasted what it meant to be ridiculed and shamed and made to feel
less than, also because of the way that I looked.

We are
sending our daughters and our sons messages every single day.We are sending them messages in how we talk
to them.They receive messages in how we
respond to each other.They are picking
up messages even in how we describe and talk about movie stars and singers and
famous athletes.With our words, our
critiques, our praises, and our affirmations we are telling them over and over
again what really matters.

Kids are much
smarter than adults in that they don’t just listen to the things we say when we
are trying to talk to them about important stuff.They actually watch what we are doing when we
put our guards down.They decide what is
true and right and good through how they see us live our lives…not just the
things we say when we think they are listening.

So what
message will it be?Will it be a message
that says you only matter when you are beautiful and thin and smart and
popular?

Or will it be
a message that says you matter because you were first made in the image of God,
and He loves you and chose you and delights in you?

Will they see
us pursuing a life of wealth and beauty and popularity? Or will they see us
with our actions living a life that pursues justice and compassion and love and
generosity?

23 years ago,
I learned that one of those things fades and shifts as fast as the weather
changes, but the other has the power to endure and produce wide and great tides
of influence and strength and courage.

So today I
choose the latter. I choose to tell my daughter not just with my words but also
with my actions that I matter because of who I am and to WHOM I belong, and so
does she.There are so many things in
this life that are just going to happen to us without any control of our
own.There are so many aspects about us physically
that are just going to be true no matter how much we try to work and change
it.But these are not the things that
are truly relevant about us.These are
not the things that matter.

But will I be
brave enough to embrace this truth?Or
will I sulk in the shadows and continue to believe the lies?

If it weren’t for
the extra pounds I am sporting and the few extra grey hairs you are rocking, I
wouldn’t believe it could be true.

But here we
are.

You have never
loved Valentine’s Day.You have always
said that it is just another day of the year and real love should be shown all
the other 364 days of the year, not just the one that everyone says is supposed
to be about love.

That used to
irritate me.It caused many tears on
many Valentine’s Day’s.I felt jibbed. I
wanted flowers and chocolates and romantic getaways.I wanted love notes and poems and gifts.I wanted so much more those days.I wanted you to somehow prove you loved me by
showering me with affection and attention on Valentine’s Day.

But today as I sat
across from you at our impromptu breakfast, and I watched you answer your phone
and take notes in your little black notepad…as I watched you do the things you
do everyday, I was so overwhelmed with gratefulness for you and for our
marriage.

And I wasn’t
grateful because ours is exceptional or easy or romantic or extraordinary.I was grateful because it is messy and hard
and rich and lovely and good.

I was grateful
because I was sitting across the table from you.

I can still
remember the day I knew that I loved you.We were just babies.I was only
21.You were only 24.We had gone for a “run.”(Quotations have to be used because I am
certain I have never actually “run” in my whole life…even calling it jogging
would be a stretch.)

Anyway, we had gone
for that “run” and of course within 15 minutes, I was whining about being
tired.We stopped.The sun was just starting to really shine,
and you said we should sit and finish watching it come up over the
mountain.

We sat on the edge
of a cow pasture.You asked me if we
could pray.

You started praying
and stopped mid-sentence.You looked up…peered
right into my eyes and said; “I think I
would like to hold your hand while we pray if that’s okay.”

Tenderly, you took
my hand and laced your fingers in between mine, and you started praying once
again.

I didn’t know then
that someday you really would be mine.I
didn’t know that someday we would be sitting across the table on a Tuesday, the
kids at school, work still to be done, but you just choosing to take a few
minutes to spoil me on the so-called day of love.

I didn’t know then what I do now.

But I knew that I
loved you.I knew that if God gave us a
chance I could love you for all the days of my life forever and always.

This marriage thing
is really hard.I haven’t always been
the most understanding and supportive wife.We have both chosen to be selfish at times.We have gone to bed angry and woken up even
angrier.We have said things that we
later regretted.We haven’t always
gotten it right all the time.

But I wouldn’t
change this life we have built together for anything.

Thank you for
choosing me.Not just today but every
day.Thank you for pushing me and
believing in me and supporting me.Thank
you for loving me.

Thank you for
showing me that a marriage worth having is always going to be much more than a romantic
Valentine’s Day.Thank you for building a life with me that is
made up of much more than flowers and chocolate and extravagant gifts.

Thank you for choosing to
still hold my hand all these years later.

You are my most cherished
Valentine, but more than that, you are my most beloved one, my husband.

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Some bits and bobbits about this blog...

This blog is mostly just ramblings by yours truly. I talk about my ups and downs being a wife, mother, and missionary in Guatemala. I have a tendency to get off on "soapboxes" as those who love me say but it is my desire that this blog can be a place of encouragement in each of your pilgrimages with Christ. At any moment if this blog becomes more about me than about Christ, than it will be done and over...so please help me stay accountable. To God be all the Glory, Honor, and Power!